“You have had experience with paranormal activity, you’re also familiar with the local geography and history, psychic and whatnot, and as the Library’s Storyteller thingy, you are needed to sign the receipt when the Library takes legal possession, in perpetuity, of the ghost.”
“Don’t you mean when the ghost takes possession of the Library?”
“Quite,” he said, as he placed the bottle filled with the paranormally potent presence on the tiled floor.
I was more than a little worried to see the bottle rock and sway and make abrupt violent hops on its own power. “It looks...angry,” I said.
“They’re all like that. The boffins have a way of dampening the psychic energy.” He waved the flip phone. “That takes some of the bite out of them. Now when I give the signal say, ‘Spirit come forth’...”
“Spirit, come forth?” I repeated.
“Not now!”
But it was too late.
The bottle exploded, showering both of us with sharp shards of glass and giving the freed ghost an opportunity to materialize with all of its force intact.
The room was filled with a harrowing sound. It came like the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild and menacing. Together we looked up at the source of this unearthly sound to be confronted with the sight of an enormous spectral dog towering over us by a least half a meter. A hound it was, an enormous green glowing hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen.
Its eyes gleamed with a malicious green intensity; its needle sharp, oversized fangs slobbered with green dripping slime, its shaggy green paws looked more like a raptor’s razor talons. And atop is massive green head was the most incongruent sight of all: a large flouncy bow that, if not for its green tinge, I would have sworn was a cloying pink.
“It’s a giant collie,” I said, in a whisper.
“If I know my breeds, and I do, it’s a giant miniature collie,” the Prince replied.
The beast growled and bared its fangs even more.
“Then why is it so huge?”
“It’s the nature of little dogs to come back as ghost dogs the size they thought they were in life. I once encountered a ghost Chihuahua the size of an African bull elephant—”
The dog fixed its angry green eyes on us.
“I think this one still has all of its bite,” I said. “Do you think we can outrun it?” I turned to the Prince only to find empty air and the sound of his fleeing footfalls heading toward the front door.
“Good doggy?” I ventured.
The ghost dog would have none of it and went back on its haunches, readying itself to leap at my terrified self.
I ran.
A clatter of ghostly paws told me I had a pursuer. Rounding the reference desk, my foot caught on one of the plastic shopping baskets available to library patrons to carry their selections to the circulation desk. I sprawled across the floor, shutting my eyes to my imminent demise.
A thud told me the beast’s paws had landed astride my supine form. Something wet, but so cold it burned, dripped on my cheek. Something like the Cold Breath of the Grave defiled the hairs on my head.
This was it.
“Bobby, no,” a quiet voice said.
The presence above me hesitated.
“Bobby, come here,” the voice said, quiet and firm.
A small snarl of confusion sounded above me. I felt the presence move quietly from me and pad toward the small, calm voice.
I opened my eyes.
There, in the center of the library, stood the ghostly form of a young woman, lithe of body, with gentle yet wise eyes, dressed in a long dress of homespun. She looked perfectly natural except for the benign, pale blue aura radiating from her form.
The monstrous ghostly canine lay at her feet, its head between its paws, its big fierce eyes now more collie-like and gazing up at her with doggy adoration.
“Good Bobby,” the young woman said. “And let’s take that silly thing from you.”
She extended her arm and pulled the flouncy ribbon from the beast’s massive skull. As it fell away, it dissolved into a cloud of green pinpricks of light, and the ghost dog’s huge tail swung back and forth in joy, threatening to sweep away books, chairs, and table. But before the damage could be done, the form of the dog shrunk until it was the regular size of a miniature collie.
“Bit of a runt, isn’t it?” the Prince said, now beside me. Where he had hidden himself while I was in peril from the hell hound I never learned.
“You found me after all this time,” the woman said, as the small dog leapt happily into her arms. They now shared the same blue hue. “Aren’t you a smart boy?”
“Who do you think she is?” the Prince asked.
“I’m not sure, but I know she’s a Gillis,” I said. “And if I know my Gillises, and I do, she’s a Grand Mira Gillis.”
“Honestly?”
“Who’s the local guide here?”
“Quite.”
Besides their familial physical resemblances, the Grand Mira Gillae was one of the founding Gaelic communities on the island and had a well-known history of association with the supernatural. Family history held the appearance of “Faerie Lights” along the Mira River, where the clan settled after coming to Cape Breton from Scotland, infallibly foretold death and tragedy to their small community.
Then I noticed the piece of paper at the ghost woman’s feet. It was the paper I had removed from the donated Gaelic book—which I am sure you all remember as that important plot point earlier.
I approached the woman and dog, who were busy enjoying their reunion, and picked it up. It was printed with several stanzas of Gaelic verse. I handed it to her.
“Look Bobby, it’s my poem about you and how much I missed you when my father sold you to that passing Royal Kennel Master just before we left for the New World,” she said, showing the paper to the dog, who studied it as if he could read the printed words. “Father felt so bad that he had copies of my poem printed in Sydney to cheer me up.”
“It’s a ghost,” I whispered.
“Of course, it’s a ghost,” The Prince said. “It’s two of them, in fact.”
“No, the poem is a ghost,” I said to the Prince’s uncomprehending face. “A ghost is a printed item of which no copies are known to exist. That poem is probably one of the first Gaelic works ever printed on Cape Breton Island.”
“Then I need to take it to the British Museum,” the Prince said, reaching for the paper in the young woman’s hand.
Bobby growled and snapped at his fingers.
“If you take that paper,” I said, “you’ll have to take the dog as well.”
“I’ll not be parted from my Bobby,” the woman said, hugging both him and the paper more tightly to her body. “Not after we found each other again.”
The Prince withdrew his hand, reluctantly.
“Quite.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said to me. “Bobby was the only thing I missed from back home. Now I am happy.”
“Actually, I’m the one—” the Prince began.
“It’s time for us to be going, isn’t it?” I said.
The Prince nodded in resigned agreement.
“Come back and visit,” the woman said, more to me than the Prince. She turned and took in the library around her and exclaimed, “Look Bobby, books! We shall have to read them all!”
The Prince and I made our way out of the front entrance, leaving the young woman and Bobby to get re-acquainted.
On the sidewalk, the Prince spoke into his flip phone. “Mission accomplished. Ready for retrieval.”
While we waited, I asked him how he chose the McConnell for this particular spirit.
“Oh, the usual: once we contain the ghost thingy, we have a séance. Ouija board, you know, and then we Goggle the exact location. The doggy must have been directing us here all the time.”<
br />
“There you go.”
“So, two ghosts for the price of one,” he said, quite pleased with himself. “Just proves the Monarchy is still an effective and relevant institution, right?”
Before I could disagree, a black nylon rope with a clip attached dropped from the sky. The Prince attached it to his belt and before I could speak, he was swiftly pulled upwards to a black, silently-hovering helicopter.
And then he was gone.
I walked up the ramp to the library’s front entrance so I could look into the window. The young woman knelt on the floor in front of the magazine rack, reading aloud to Bobby. He sat in front of her, tilted head following her every syllable. She looked up, saw me and smiled.
I waved a good-bye and walked back down the ramp heading for home. Christmas morning was dawning fast in the eastern sky over the spires of St. Theresa’s Church. I looked forward to a day of cheer among the oblivious living.
I still felt like an idiot, but at least, for this Christmas, I’d been a useful idiot.
Author Notes
This story, with the Prince of Wales as my antagonist, was meant for the year after “Joyce to the World,” but a serious illness forced me to bow out. However, I completed it for the next one which turned out to be the final year of this particular iteration of Gaudy Night.
My inspiration was The Prince and The Paranormal, a book I found on the twenty-five cent cart of paperbacks of library discards to be found in the McConnell’s lobby. Some of the lore of haunted palaces comes from that book as well as the “history” of Charles’ involvement with the paranormal and other esoteric and metaphysical beliefs. My plan was always to have a more wistful ending and a few odds and ends I picked up along the way—a part of a book on publishing about “ghosts” (actually referring to a juvenile poem by James Joyce his father had printed!) gave me one element, an evening of storytelling collection in Grand Mira sponsored by the Regional Library and the Beaton Institute introduced me to the Gaelic folk beliefs of the Gillis families there, and a description of the ghost dog was literally cut and pasted from an online version of Conan Doyle’s “The Hound of The Baskervilles”—filled out the tale. I even got to mention the shopping baskets available for library patrons that undoubtedly only a few of them know are there for their convenience.
For both stories in this anthology, my main object was to have fun writing them with the hope the audience would have fun listening to them (and I was very conscious they would be heard rather than read). To do that, I cut any exposition and description of person and place to the bare minimum and tried to make up for lapses in logic and plausibility in storytelling drive and humour. Preparing these stories for publication with the direction of our perceptive editors, I decided not to put back in the bits I left out and hope that the High Spirits with which they were written would entertain my audience of readers.
The Authors
Ken Chisholm
Ken Chisholm lives in Sydney, Nova Scotia, where he writes a newspaper column for the Cape Breton Post, has held the post of Storyteller In Residence for the Cape Breton Regional Library, writes songs, writes plays, and writes fiction, but never poetry. He also performs onstage as an actor, singer, and musician, but can’t dance (so don’t ask him).
*~*~*
Todd Pettigrew
Originally from New Hamburg, Ontario, Todd Pettigrew studied English and Theatre at the University of Western Ontario, McMaster University and the University of Waterloo, where he earned his Ph.D. in 1998.
After a brief stint in publishing, he came to Cape Breton to take up a faculty position at Cape Breton University (then the University College of Cape Breton) in 2000. He is now Associate Professor of English in the Department of Cultural and Creative Studies, and is the author of numerous scholarly publications, including an award-winning monograph, “Shakespeare and the Practice of Physic” (2007).
For many years he has been active in local theatre, but now directs most of his creative energy towards music and writing fiction. He lives in Leitches Creek with his wife, two sons, and more cats than many think is advisable.
*~*~*
Scott Sharplin
Scott Sharplin grew up in Edmonton, Alberta, where a lively theatre scene and a procession of inspiring English teachers conspired to make a playwright out of him. After earning his B.A. (Honours) at the University of Alberta, he moved to Montreal to study playwriting at the National Theatre School of Canada, but an ill-timed ice storm sent him packing. Since then, he has been Artistic Director of two theatre companies, managed three video stores (remember those?), earned an M.A. in Humanities Computing, and worked for three post-secondary institutions.
Scott’s previously published work includes the scripts “Burnt Remains” (in Staging Alternative Albertas, Playwrights Canada Press, 2002), “Purity Test” (in Three on the Boards, Signature Editions, 2008), and “The Trial of Salomé” (in Hot Thespian Action, Athabasca University Press, 2008). His plays have been produced across Canada, and he is a member of the Playwrights Guild of Canada and the Playwrights Atlantic Resource Centre. In addition to playwriting, Scott writes role-playing games, journalistic non-fiction, short stories, and beer-themed haiku. His other freelance artistic work includes acting, dramaturgy, and arts administration.
In 2009, Scott moved to Sydney with his wife, Dr. Sheila Christie, to teach at Cape Breton University. Two years later, they had a son, whose presence looms large in all Scott’s subsequent writing.
You can follow Scott online by bookmarking his blog, http://mapledanish.com, or subscribing to his messy missives at
http://www.tinyletter.com/scottsharplin.
*~*~*
Jenn Tubrett
Jenn Tubrett is a writer from Sydney. Nova Scotia. Her roots are in Theatre. She grew to love the English language as an actor and quickly moved into playwrighting. In 2010, during the 39th Elizabeth Boardmore One Act Play Festival at the Boardmore Theatre in Sydney, Nova Scotia, Tubrett took home the award for Best Original Script with her romp comedy Notte Del Partito.
Shortly after that she began meeting with a group of local writers and continues to do so to this day. They call themselves The Dead Puppets Society. It is with this group and through creating a series of horror-themed Halloween shows (The Tales from the Bottom of the Well series, the Black Jack series, and participating as an actor in Frankenstein) that she discovered the joy of writing horror. It is also through this group that she gained the confidence and guidance to write narrative.
Tubrett has published twice before with Third Person Press; first in 2012 with her Sci-Fi/Horror short story “Our Last Vacation” as part of Unearthed, Volume 3 of the Speculative Elements Series and in 2014, with her dystopian short story “Epilogue” as a part of Flashpoint, Volume 4 in the Speculative Elements Series. “Bucky’s Ghost” marks her third publication with Third Person Press.
Gaudy Nights at the McConnell Library
In the fall of 2010, I approached Dr. Todd Pettigrew from Cape Breton University’s English Department about the possibility of speaking at the McConnell Memorial Library in Sydney, Nova Scotia about some of the Canadian authors that our New Horizon's Seniors’ Book Clubs were reading. Being a Robertson Davies devotee and scholar, Todd suggested he could speak about him, as he wrote many of his novels later in life, and claimed that you can best appreciate a novel when you are close in age to the author when the book was written. At that point we had only thirty titles in our book club collection, and only one by Davies, so Todd made a wonderful suggestion!
To commemorate the 15th anniversary of Davies’ death that December, he proposed that we hold an event to raise money to purchase more books for the book clubs. Todd’s idea was to resurrect the “Gaudy Night” readings, Davies’ tradition of telling a ghost story at the annual Massey College Christmas party at the University of Toronto. Davies did this for the eighteen years he was the Master of the College, for the amusement of those attending the celebrations. These spooky, humourou
s, Christmas-themed ghost stories were eventually published by Penguin Canada in 1982 in the collection “High Spirits.”
For the first two years we offered this event, Todd was joined by Scott Sharplin from the CBU Drama Department to read three of Davies’ ghost stories. Both Todd and Scott are acclaimed performers in the CBU and community theatre circles with the dramatic flair to do justice to these stories, so the events were great successes. In the third year, Todd contributed an original story while Scott and Cape Breton Regional Library’s Storyteller in Residence, Ken Chisholm, also an accomplished thespian, read stories by Davies. By the fourth year, all three contributed original stories, so we were truly offering our own homegrown Gaudy Night! In our sixth year, actor and author Jenn Tubrett joined the cast and has contributed her story to this collection as well.
Over the six years, hundreds of dollars in donations were collected at the Gaudy Night events to support the Library’s Seniors’ Book Clubs across the region. These resources allowed us to purchase over forty sets of books that kept our voracious readers happy until we were able to secure another New Horizons for Seniors’ grant that allowed us to purchase over one hundred new sets of books to serve the growing demand for good reads. This let us expand our book clubs beyond those that met at library branches to those in rural areas served by our bookmobiles and to clubs meeting in the community. To date, there are thirty book clubs served by this collection, and more are taking advantage of it every year.
This has been a great success story, with audiences looking forward each year to enjoying the creativity and dramatic readings of these wonderful local thespians, and the Cape Breton Regional Library (and book club members!) appreciating the ongoing support for book clubs in our community.
Chris Thomson, Programs
Cape Breton Regional Library
Sydney, Nova Scotia
August 2016
Afterword
Christmas Stalkings Page 11